I don't know myself.

Does that not sound absurd?

Don't even try, of course it does.

It's not a random mid-teen identity crisis, I'm fortunate enough to know where I bloody stand. I just... don't seem to fully comprehend the lengths and depths of my own persona.

I can't write anymore. Perhaps a few overly-romantic lines spring to mind, but my stories are all in an insufferably frozen hiatus. Words just aren't flowing to their usual rhythm... I suppose that may be the reason for the lack of entries. It's infuriating. The only person who can extract a decently constructed sentence from me is him. And he doesn't even notice it, or at least it doesn't look like he does. There's something about the way he writes/reacts to me that makes me want to write back by a tenfold... all in the most ridiculously romantic-poetic way imaginable. He just... exacerbates my need/wish to write. Perhaps I vent my pent up writing-frustration on him through the use of corny lines and extensive explanations. Ish.

Life seems to have entered this phantom-like stage in which everyone and everything lack the crystalline glow they used to so inherently meander with. I miss my colors. Even music sounds like white noise nowadays, it's beginning to get to me.

I've noticed people trying to show some concern for my current... predicament; I can only handle sympathy/empathy from a certain amount of people before it gets impossibly annoying. I appreciate caring, yes, don't think me ungrateful; but hovering and remakes of the Spanish inquisition get on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. I'm sure this rant sounds all too familiar to the 'emo' temperament so allow me to assure you there will be no blade to my wrist anytime soon. Lets just await this static to fade.

I want Scrabble for Christmas.
I found it in a store after much pretend-scavenger hunting but it was in Spanish. Sigh.

Toodles from the Land of the Uncomfortably Numb,
-B.